


The Scoop

by Fitzchivalry1122



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Depressed Dean, Famous Dean Winchester, First Meetings, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Masturbation, Photographer Castiel, Pining, Porn, Porn With Plot, Rock Star Dean, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-02-22 00:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13155621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fitzchivalry1122/pseuds/Fitzchivalry1122
Summary: Castiel Novak is a music photographer for Noise! Magazine. He's a pretty good one too, if you ignore the fact he doesn't really know anything about modern music.His lack of music savvy has always been a running joke among his colleagues, but when Castiel spends an evening hanging out with elusive rock god Dean Campbell without even realising it, suddenly no one is laughing anymore.With increasing pressure from his boss to entrap Dean Campbell for their article, Castiel finds himself torn between loyalty to his job and loyalty to a man he just met. But just who is Dean Campbell, anyway? And why is he suddenly so interested in a guy like Castiel?And why has he got the name "Sammy" tattooed on his arm?





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 

He wasn’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the line it had become standard procedure for Castiel Novak to be sent out on a coffee run whenever Chuck called a big meeting.

Not that Castiel got much say in the matter. In fact, as he was trying to balance eight venti paper cups in his arms and push the elevator button for the seventh floor, he found himself thinking, (and not for the first time that day), how unfair it was that it was always _him_ who had to miss the first half of the meetings. He wasn’t sure why he was always singled out as the coffee patsy – maybe it was because he was the only person at _Noise!_  magazine who actually turned up in a suit. Maybe it was because no matter how long he spent trying to style his hair in the mornings, he always showed up to the office looking like he’d been electrocuted. Or maybe, (and this was his brother Gabriel’s favourite theory), he was just _too fucking nice_ to say ‘no’. Whatever the case, usually by the time he’d made it back to the board room, all the good assignments were gone -  and as a freelance photographer, he knew he couldn’t afford to miss any more commissions.

 He thought this over as he got in the elevator. When he finally made it to the board room, he was already wearing half a fluid ounce of caramel soy latte on his shirt, and he didn’t miss the way that Michael smirked as he was passing the drinks around the table. As it turned out, the offending beverage had belonged to him, which made sense to Castiel in a twisted sort of way, because when Castiel joined the magazine nearly three years ago, he had nursed a discrete crush on Michael; or at least, he had thought it was discrete. The crush had lasted for several awkward months, until Michael finally put paid to it in a very painful, _very public_ way.

 Castiel was a firm believer that a person’s choice in caffeinated beverage was a direct reflection of their personality. If you really wanted to gauge somebody’s personality type, looking at their choice in coffee was better than all the Briggs-Meyers and Rorschach Inkblot Tests you could muster.  Michael was a prime example – whereas today he had ordered a caramel soy latte, the last time they had a meeting it had been a half-fat macchiato with extra foam. The time before that, it had been a grande vanilla bean crème frappuccino. His drink choices were often high maintenance and no matter how hard Castiel tried, he always complained that he had got it _wrong._

Anna, who always ordered soy milk, was sitting near the head of the table. She was something of a new-ager. Next to her sat Balthazar, who was british and would only drink tea. Gabriel, (who as well as being Castiel’s older brother, was also a journalist for _Noise!_  Magazine, and the person who got Castiel the job in the first place), only drank cocoa with extra marshmallows – because for some reason, Gabe valued sugar content over actual caffeine. Castiel was of the opinion that Gabriel had the emotional intelligence of a nine-year-old.

There was a moment of furore while the drinks were handed out – and in the end, Chuck had to bang his fist on the table in order to get everyone’s attention. Chuck Shurley, with his three-day stubble and blood-shot eyes, always ordered a double espresso. He practically vibrated with anxiety.

“Alright, alright! Settle down everyone!” He looked at Castiel, who was trying to slip into a chair next to Gabriel in the most unobtrusive way possible, “Now, as I was saying before we were interrupted; what we need to be focusing on is _First Blood._ That’s where the story is. That’s the editorial people want to see.”

 _‘First Blood’._ Castiel was guessing that that was the name of a band; and judging by the stressed look on Chuck’s face, they must have been a pretty big one.  Not for the first time, Castiel cursed his lack of music savvy. The faces around the table weren’t giving anything away. Balthazar looked bored. Michael took a sip of his coffee and pulled a face.  Next to him, Gabriel sighed.

“Everyone is publishing stories about First Blood.” His brother rolled his eyes, “You said you wanted us to be different. What happened to what you said last year about wanting us to ‘distinguish ourselves’?”

“That was before they won four Grammys, Gabriel. They are the hot topic this year. Rolling Stone already got a scoop on Benny Lafitte’s former drug use. What we want is something bigger, _better.”_

“Seedier, you mean.” Gabriel leaned back in his seat, folding his arms.

If Chuck heard him, he chose to ignore it. “C’mon guys, what are your thoughts? Let’s do some brainstorming.”

Anna opened her mouth to say something but predictably, Michael beat her to the punch. “First Blood are in New York in a couple of weeks; they’re playing Madison Square Gardens on the Friday.” He grinned, “Of course, I already have tickets.”

Gabriel made no attempt to hide his disgust; he seldom did when Michael was speaking. But, as Castiel’s brother and first-hand witness to his shit-show of a crush, Cas had to figure he’d earned that right. As Gabriel leaned forward in his seat, Castiel  pretended to find a spot on the light fixtures above his head fascinating. Gabriel pointed a finger at Michael, “Are you _serious?_ You don’t even listen to rock music, you douche-canoe. Why would you even buy tickets?”

When Michael smiled at Gabriel, it was all smooth veneers and narrowed eyes.  It was not so much a smile as it was a bearing of teeth. “What do you mean? I love rock music. Particularly when the lead guitarist happens to be a hot piece of ass.” Then something in his face changed, his eyes lighting up. He turned to Chuck, “ _There’s_ your story. If Dean Campbell isn’t gay, I’ll eat my hat.”

Chuck raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

“You can’t possibly know that.” Anna said.

“I can,” said Michael, “’because ‘gaydar’ is an actual thing.”

“He was dating one of the _Olsen twins,_ for god’s sake. And that other woman. What was her name? ‘Something Braeden’?”

Gabriel nodded, “I gotta side with Anna on this one. It doesn’t get any less gay than that.”

If Michael was bothered, he didn't show it. "Then he’s bi-sexual.” He saluted Chuck with a tilt of his coffee cup, “Trust me on this, boss. I’m never wrong.” 

Castiel watched Chuck purse his lips. For a moment, his mind seemed to be elsewhere; his eyes staring off into an invisible future where, Castiel assumed, he was receiving a pulitzer prize for outing one of the most famous men in music. For a moment, Castiel pitied this Dean _whatever-his-name-was._

He watched as Gabriel looked from Michael to Chuck in horror. “You two can’t be serious. You can’t chase up a potential story based off of Michael’s fucking _gaydar._ ”

“No,” Chuck said, “but thinking about it, Dean has never been seen with the same girl twice. There’s bound to be some kind of scandal there. That’s where the money is.” He thought some more, then added, “I think I can swing some backstage passes for the gig in New York. I’m thinking of a ‘behind-the-scenes’ piece – I want pictures of the band doing coke. I want blowjobs from groupies. I want to see the rock-and-roll lifestyle.” He turned to Michael, “Are you going to take this assignment?”

Michael grinned, “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Give it a good write-up, Michael. I want your ‘A’ game. And you’ll need a photographer too. Have you got anyone in mind?”

“Zeke.” He said it without hesitation. Castiel didn’t even think he’d had time to get his hopes up, before Michael had smashed them to pieces. It wasn’t like he even knew who the band was, but it would have been nice to be included in one of the bigger stories. But then, he thought, did he really want to work with Michael? _And on such a seedy article?_

“Then it’s settled. Michael, I want your first draft emailed to me by the end of the Saturday, ready to print on Monday. Get Zeke briefed.” Chuck looked around the room, his shoulders sagging. He looked almost relieved. “Alright, dismissed. Get to work, all of you.”

Castiel was not quick to leave his seat. He let the rest of the room gather their papers and crowd out of the room first. As he took a minute to finish the last of his coffee and stare morosely into his empty cup, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Gabriel.

“You know what, bro? Screw ‘em. They don’t know what they’re missing.”

“Hm?” Castiel said, more to his coffee cup than to anyone else. He tried to pretend he didn’t know what his brother was talking about. Like Gabriel wouldn’t be able to see through that ruse in about five seconds.   

“Michael. It bothers you that he always picks Zeke as his photographer, huh?”

Castiel looked him straight in the face, squared his shoulders and said, “No.”  

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I know.”

“Look at it this way; do you really want to spend your Friday night watching Michael try to hit on Dean fucking Campbell, the straightest man in rock music? Actually, scratch that.” Gabriel grinned, “That would be hysterical. I would pay money to see that.”  

Castiel shrugged.

“You know what I’m trying to say, kiddo.” Gabe looked around, checking that the boardroom was indeed empty before he leaned in and said, “Michael needs an old geezer like Zeke as his wingman. He can’t turn up backstage with you on his arm, or any gay guy within a twenty yard radius will flock to you like a moth to a gay flame.”

“Thank you?” There were so many things wrong with that sentence, but it was about as complimentary as Gabe got so Castiel decided not to challenge it. Instead, he stood from his seat and stretched his arms, feeling his shoulders give a satisfying pop. “I guess… I don’t know. I just seem to be getting less and less work from Chuck. And you know I’m not a fan of Michael, but he and Zeke seem to get all the big stories and I always seem to get stuck doing promo shots for european death metal bands.”

Gabriel smiled, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Don’t knock death metal. Those bearded guys can really fuck you up.” He plucked the empty paper coffee cup out of Cas’ hands and slam-dunked it into a nearby waste paper basket. “But, seriously man. Cheer up. I bet you didn’t even know who First Blood were before stepping foot inside that meeting.”

He had him there. It was a running joke between him and Gabriel that Cas was so out-of-touch with modern music. Castiel - who had once stood next to Carlos Santana at a bar for a full fifteen minutes without realising who he was - had always maintained that it was this lack of interest in celebrity that allowed him to be a great photographer. It had only made Gabriel laugh harder.

 “Okay,” Castiel smiled as he walked with his brother out the room. He switched off the lights and the air conditioning, before closing the door, “you’ve got a point. ‘Dean who’? That’s what I say.”


	2. Dean

A couple of weeks passed. It was nearly October in New York and fall had come late that year. Only now did the leaves of the sycamore trees begin to turn yellow and red; and slowly but surely, they began to litter the sidewalks and stoops of the entire neighbourhood. The evenings began to cool off and Castiel started wearing scarves again. Fall was his favourite time of year.

It was a good job that freelancing at _Noise!_ was not Castiel’s only source of income. He acted as bartender at the Corner Club on 22 nd Street, and occasionally he was able to sell prints of his work to art enthusiasts over the internet. He spent the afternoon of Friday just walking; he brought his camera with him, and took pictures of anything and everything that caught his attention. Leaves, mostly. The way the sun hung low in the sky, casting shadows over the autumnal colours made for some truly stunning – if not _original_ – photography.  

He reached the Corner Club at 7.45pm, ready to start his shift. He locked his camera and the rest of his possessions in the storage locker in Jody’s office, and made a point of changing his grey sweater for a lighter Henley, something that wouldn’t cause him to sweat too much when the bar became crowded later on in the evening. He felt strangely at peace with the world – hell, he felt _zen._ And the funny thing was, he hadn’t even realised how stressed he had been until suddenly he wasn’t. There had been something about the weight of the camera around his neck, and the way that the leaves had rolled down the streets that had managed to recalibrate his soul like nothing else on this earth. And for the first time in a long time, Castiel remembered why he had gotten into photography in the first place.

He was in this state of mind when Jody stuck her head in the office and yelled, “Hey Cas! You got a phone call out front.”  

“A call? From who?”

Jody shrugged. “How would I know? The guy’s on hold.”

As Castiel moved behind the bar, he inadvertently hip-checked Jody, who gave him a half-hearted glare as she was cashing out the till. Even as he was lifting the phone to his ear, he was mouthing the word ‘sorry’ at her.  

Silence stretched out over the phoneline like a vacuum. For a moment, Cas wondered if there was even anyone there.

“Hello?” he said.   
  
“Cassie, thank GOD!” And just like that, Gabriel’s voice was there, consuming the vacuum, “I’ve been trying to reach you all day! Have you had your phone switched off?”

“Yeah, actually. I was working on a personal project.” He remembered that he’d turned off his cell-phone earlier that afternoon.  At the time, there had been something strangely freeing in being incommunicado. Now, Castiel wondered if he had missed something urgent. “Gabe, what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? Zeke only went snowboarding and broke his fucking arm yesterday.  Chuck is apoplectic.”

Already Castiel could feel the tension setting back into his shoulders. Working for Chuck Shurley was going to be the death of him. With the phone pressed against his face, Castiel sighed. He watched Jody pour a measure of scotch for a man sitting alone, staring into space. Even under the low light of the bar, the three-day stubble and dark circles under his eyes were prominent. And Cas thought, _that man could be me._  

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What do you want from me, Gabe?”  

“Are you serious? Were you even listening? Now’s your chance! Chuck needs a photographer for the gig tonight. So you ride in on your white horse like a motherfucking saviour, and agree to take some pictures. Chuck starts foaming with gratitude, and boom! You’re the new golden boy!”

Castiel nodded. He watched the man at the bar down his scotch and motion for Jody to leave the bottle in front of him. _Yup, definitely me._

“Tonight? Gabe, I’m busy. I got a shift at the Corner Club.”

“Fuck the Corner Club! You wanted to be a photographer? This is your big break! This isn’t some up-and-coming indie band, Cassie! This is fucking _First Blood._ The honest-to-god, number one, best-selling, top-of-the-itunes-chart _First Blood_.  

“First Blood?” Cas busied himself, rearranging the bottles on the shelves behind him. The man at the bar looked up with sudden interest, and Castiel had to turn his back and lower his voice.   _“Wait,_ _they’re that rock band right?”_

Truth be told, he’d forgotten about the First Blood gig. It had been filed away to that part of the human brain that was reserved for unnecessary information; his brain had, at some point, decided that this was not the sort of information that affected him directly, and had locked it away somewhere inaccessible to him. As it was, he only vaguely remembered the meeting a couple of weeks ago.   

Castiel sighed, “I can’t, I have to work. I’m covering for Donna.”

 _“Fuck Donna._ This is important.”  

“Gabe, she’s going through a divorce.”

“Uh huh,” Gabriel said, “and part of me feels real bad for her. But a bigger, more realistic part of me says ‘ _so fucking what?_ ’ Get down to Madison Square Gardens, Michael is already there.” There was a moment of silence, and then Gabriel whispered, “What’s wrong with you, bro? This is everything you ever wanted, handed to you on a plate.”

Castiel’s heart sank. This was what he wanted, right? A chance to prove himself, to become a _real_ photographic journalist? Then why did he feel so sick inside?

Because he couldn’t do it; not if it meant screwing over Jody and Donna. Jody, who despite being barely two years older than him, insisted on treating him like a son. And Donna – sweet, good-natured Donna – who lacked the ability to swear and for some reason always said the word ‘heck’ when she really meant ‘hell’. Donna who bought him donuts, and called him ‘angel face’. 

He looked at the clock on the wall, and tried to do some calculations.

“If First Blood start the gig at nine pm, assuming it’s at least a two hour set, they’ll be finished by eleven thirty right? My shift finishes at midnight. I might be able to make it to the after party. That’s the best I can do.”

Gabriel made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl, _“Fine._ The ball’s in your court now, little brother. It’s up to you to make this happen.”

Before Castiel could respond to that, Gabriel had hung up on him. Cas closed his eyes, and leaned his head against the liquor shelf for a moment. He waited until the dial tone dissolved into a serious of click-click-clicks before hanging up the phone.

When he turned around, it was to see a concerned-looking Jody. “Everything okay over there, mister?”

“Yeah.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t feel right. “It was nothing, don’t worry.”

She didn’t look convinced. She took a step forward and ran her fingers through his hair, smoothing it into a more manageable style. Her hands were warm. “Okay. But if you need anything, you come talk to me, ‘kay?”

Castiel nodded, and Jody smiled at that, walking away. The best thing about Jody was that she knew when not to push an issue.

It took a moment for Castiel to get his bearings after a phonecall like that. He tested some of the beer pumps to see if any barrels needed changing, and then he thought about re-stocking the fridge – but everything already seemed to be in order. In the absence of anything else to do, he began to wipe down the bar.

“So,” said the man with the scotch, “do you really not know who _First Blood_ are?”

Castiel had not been expecting that. He looked up at the man; despite the shadows under his eyes, he looked pretty good.  In fact, as Castiel took a step closer to him, he found himself revising that opinion; the man looked _really_ good. Like, _‘Days Of Our Lives’_ good. And even though it was too dark in the bar for Castiel to tell what colour his eyes were, they were wide and beautiful, and he held his stubbled chin up at a defiant angle, which really shouldn’t have turned him on so much but god help him, it did. If Castiel had a “type”, it was recalcitrant men. He had barely felt the first frisson of sexual attraction before he was picturing the man’s soft lips grazing the tip of his cock, and he had to stop his imagination before he embarrassed himself.

It had been a long time since he had last got laid.

Clearing his throat, Castiel said, “I’m sorry?”

The man smiled. “On the phone, just now. You said, ‘ _Wait,_ _they’re that rock band right?’_ His impression of Castiel was not flattering. When Cas opened up his mouth to reply, the guy threw up his hands in a defensive gesture, and said, “Hey, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. But you were kind of just… _there._ Couldn’t help overhearing, man. Sorry.”

Castiel picked up the bottle of scotch and poured another drink for the customer. The man watched his movements. It felt weird to be the object of such scrutiny.

“Okay, long story short,” Castiel said, “I’m a photographer. My brother wanted me to get some pictures of the gig for a magazine, but as you can see, I’m working. So he hung up on me.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“But, if it makes you feel any better,” the man picked up his glass and downed the amber liquid in one swallow. Castiel watched as his adam’s apple bobbed with the movement. It was weirdly erotic, “that band sucks anyway. The lead guitarist in particular. Worst guitarist ever.”

 _The lead guitarist? Wasn’t that the guy Michael was trying to honey trap?_ _Dirk something-or-other?_

The man looked at Castiel over the rim of the glass and smiled. It completely transformed his face, and oh god, Cas was _smitten._ He could feel his face heating up and he hated it because it meant that he was blushing. Castiel Novak, a 33 year old man and professional photographer, _wa_ s _blushing._  

He busied himself with cleaning the bar. The bar’s lighting was pretty poor at the best of times, and he was reasonably confident that no one could tell his cheeks were turning pink. He thought that was the end of the conversation, but then the man said, “So, you don’t listen to First Blood. What do you listen to? Kenny Rogers? Sting? No wait, you’re a Diana Ross kind of guy, aren’t ya? I can tell.”

Castiel laughed, despite himself. “No. I like classical music.”

The man pulled a face, “Like, Van Halen?”  
  
“Like ‘Tchaikovsky’.”

The man grimaced, “Jeez, grandpa.”

Castiel didn’t know why that stung, but it did. Maybe it was a delayed reaction after his phone call with Gabriel; or maybe it was his frustration with Chuck and his career in general. Whatever it was, the man’s reaction felt like a hard slap of reality. As quickly as he had gained the man’s interest, it seemed like he had lost it. Castiel poured him another drink and went to collect some empty glasses, acutely aware that he was clenching his jaw the whole time. _Fine. Let Jody serve him. Asshole._

Eventually other customers started to enter the bar, and Castiel served them with a forced smile. And although he tried to ignore the man sitting four feet away from him, it was difficult. He had become the focal point of the room, and despite the fact Castiel was focusing very hard on not looking at him, he found ignoring the man to be damn near impossible. It wasn’t until Cas was pulling a glass of draft lager that he dared to even look over in the man’s direction.

He was watching him. There was a delayed reaction; it took him a moment to realise that Cas was staring back at him and when he did, he jerked his head away. He looked at the bottle of scotch, the back wall, and then focused on Jody, who was replenishing the supply of chips behind the bar. She said something to him that had him throwing his head back and laughing.

 _Do they know each other?_ The jealousy he felt was irrational. It was tempered only by the feel of cold lager pouring over his fingers, and he realised that he had overfilled the customer’s glass. _Damn it, Cas. Smooth._

He’d have thought his annoyance would have put paid to his sexual attraction, but apparently not. He chalked it up to the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in so long; his penis was taking an unhealthy interest in unfolding events, and even as he was getting gradually more and more irritable, none of this bad feeling seemed to do anything to douse the attraction. This was what Gabe referred to as an “anger-boner”.

He had to distract himself.

It was difficult. Every time Castiel had to handle money, he had to walk over to the cash register, near to where the man was sitting. As he was counting money at the till, he could hear the man talking. The louder the man talked, the more aggressively he counted. Eventually he looked up.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, “were you talking to me?”

“I asked what your name was.” The man had to yell to be heard. Leaning forward, more into the light, Castiel thought his eyes might be hazel. Or maybe green? He didn’t answer the question, but instead found he had to start counting from the beginning. 

As he finished counting, he looked up to see the man still watching him.  

“Am I annoying you?” he asked, with a smirk.

“Yes.”

If anything, that made him smirk harder, and Cas found himself wanting to wipe that smug grin off his stupid, chiselled face.

“My name’s Dean Winchester.” He said as he extended his hand. “What’s yours?”

“Castiel Novak.” He took his hand, noticing that the skin felt warm and calloused. He had the peculiar notion of taking one of those roughened fingers and sucking it into his mouth. The thought was bizarrely pornographic and completely out of nowhere _. What the hell is wrong with me?_

“Castiel,” Dean appeared to be trying the name out on his tongue. He said it with a questioning tone, looking at Cas the whole time, seeing if he was pronouncing it right. When Cas didn’t correct him, he said it again with more certainty. _“Castiel._  That French or something?”

Castiel shrugged, “Not as far as I’m aware. My mother was pretty religious. Me and my brother were both named after angels; Castiel and Gabriel.”

“Oh really? Does that mean you’re an angel, Cas?” 

Castiel rolled his eyes, but he did it with a small smile. He’d heard that line before, but something told him that Dean wasn’t seriously hitting on him. Not really. A man like Dean, flirting was his default mode. He probably didn’t even realise he was doing it. Never the less, a moment later when he caught Dean raking his eyes down his body, every synapse he had seemed to be on full nuclear meltdown; his skin prickled under the attention, and he realised with some dismay that he was more than a little hard. He knew he had to derail this line of thinking now; like, _right now_. He was supposed to be working. If he was tenting his pants behind the bar, people were going to _fucking notice._

“I have work to do.” Was all he managed to say.  

Dean shouted something after him, but mercifully Castiel didn’t get to hear it- a man on the other side of the bar was signalling him, impatiently.

~

His shift went quicker than expected. As the evening got later, more people began to crowd into the bar and soon Castiel found himself performing the familiar bar-tending routine; pouring measures, taking cash, trying to differentiate between the people who had already ordered their drinks, and the people still trying to get his attention. Jody was with him every step of the way, and together they moved fluidly behind the bar – it became a kind of dance with them. There was not much space but they navigated it beautifully. 

Dean watched them the whole time.

It didn’t really occur to Castiel until later, but Dean didn’t seem interested in interacting with anyone. As the hours passed, and the air in the Corner Club became more claustrophobic, a young woman at the end of the bar flagged Castiel down. She looked barely old enough to be drinking there, but then the bar had always attracted a heavy college crowd, and Cas knew there was a guy on the door checking IDs, so he didn’t think much of it. She asked what Dean was drinking, and the surge of jealousy he felt threw him completely off guard. He told her it was scotch, and she asked him to pour the guy a double-measure and to send it over for her.

It wasn’t the first time Cas was used as a social mediator in the bar. _Get that guy a drink on me. Let me pick up that girl’s bar tab. Blah, blah, blah._  He poured the drink and planted it down in front of Dean with such vehemence that the scotch sloshed over his hand. Dean looked surprised.

“It’s from the jailbait at the end of the bar.” 

Dean had laughed at that; it had sounded rich and warm, and for a moment it made Castiel want to laugh too.

It happened all night. A lot of people wanted to buy Dean drinks, or talk to Dean, or get selfies with Dean. It got so that he was no longer watching Castiel work; instead, his entire attention seemed to be monopolised by whoever happened to be standing next to him at the bar. He didn’t seem relaxed though; his shoulders were tensed, his jawline clenched. Dean began to look exhausted, and more than once did Castiel see him pull on his leather jacket, like he was intending to leave the bar, only to have someone sit him back on his stool and keep talking at him.

_What the hell is going on? Is he okay?_

That was when it happened. The scream.

It was visceral and undeniably feminine, and the shock of it caused Castiel to drop the glass of ice he had been holding. The scream was at such a pitch that it had managed to shock the bar into silence for almost five whole seconds, and in that moment the only noise to be heard was the too-loud jukebox playing one of the few Bruce Springstein songs that Castiel could actually identify. He located the source of the scream – a woman, standing next to Dean, had grabbed hold of his shirt and appeared to be yelling in his ear. Dean’s smile was fixed, but it looked pained.

His feet moved before he could stop himself.

“Is there a problem here?” Castiel had to yell to be heard over the din. Closer to Dean, he could see that the man’s hands were resting on the woman’s forearms, calmly trying to detach her grip from his clothes. Every time he managed to get one hand free, it reattached itself in a different place.

She didn’t seem to even register that Castiel was there.

“Cas,” Dean’s voice was deceptively calm, “a little help, buddy?”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Cas was flipping open the swing door to the bar. There were a couple of college-aged men standing in his way, but something in his face caused them to step back. He grabbed Dean by his jacket and yanked him off the stool; apparently, neither Dean nor the woman were expecting it, and whereas Dean managed to find his feet quickly, he was powerless to stop Cas dragging him behind the bar and slamming the swing door shut behind him. The woman took a moment to get back to her feet, but she seemed unfazed; leaning over the bar, she was still trying to reach for Dean.

“Please!” she said, “Please! I JUST WANT ONE PICTURE! DEAN!! DEANNN!!”

She was starting to get everyone’s attention now. People looked from her to Dean. Castiel wasn’t even aware that his hands were still on Dean until he felt the man tug at his arms.

“Cas, man. I gotta get out of here.”

“Go!” Cas pushed him towards the door that lead into the back. There were a couple of flashes of light that told him that people were taking pictures, and the sound of Jody balling out a customer and telling them to get off the bar. This was the last thing he heard as he followed Dean into the back. Dean went to take a left down the corridor and Cas grabbed him again, pulling him towards Jody’s office.

“The fire escape is this way. Are you going to be okay getting out of here?”

Dean stopped so suddenly that he nearly crashed into him. Cas felt like everything was happening so quickly, that he was having difficulty processing it; and even as he thought this, he felt Dean grabbing him and slamming him against the wall of Jody’s office.   A couple of picture frames fell to the floor, and then his lips were on him.  

It was not so much a kiss as it was an incursion – Dean’s mouth pressed hard against his, his stubble rasping against Castiel’s face with every movement of his lips.

 _He’s kissing me_ , he thought. It took him a split-second before he was able to curb his shock; the desperation in it – the _need_ – was a palpable thing. Castiel had been kissed by many people before, but never like this. Like kissing was the same thing as breathing. He knew he could stop this – he _should_ stop this – but somehow, he found himself kissing back. It was only the slightest movement of his lips, but Dean seized it, and then the kiss became something else; all teeth and tongue and heavy breathing.

And oh god, it was good. It was _so_ good.

It was only when Cas’ hands found their way into Dean’s hair that he managed to pull away. He hadn’t meant to tighten his grip - in fact, he was only half-aware of what his hands were doing, but the resulting moan from Dean was damn near pornographic. He looked at Dean then – _really_ looked at him– as he tried the same technique again. He pulled his hair, harder this time, and Dean’s eyes fluttered closed, his swollen lips still panting for breath.

“Oh god, I gotta go.” He said, breathlessly. “Can’t stand around here makin’ out all day.”

The next kiss was short, barely a peck on the lips. Castiel found himself chasing Dean’s mouth, but he pulled away completely, and without Dean pinning him to the wall, his legs nearly buckled.

Dean grinned at him then. He was like a different Dean; one minute he was kissing like a greek god and the next, there he was - smoothing his shirt out, looking entirely unaffected by the whole thing.  Castiel, who was still keeled over and about a hair-trigger away from creaming his own pants, wanted to punch him in that moment. Wanted to punch him in his perfect face, for kissing him like that and not really meaning it.

Dean ran to the fire door, stuck his head out, and evaluated the situation. “Shit. There’s a couple of people out here already. I gotta go. _Now.”_

He turned back to Cas. “For the record, you are really fucking hot. But I wouldn’t bother telling anyone about this. I got lawyers, and no one would believe you anyway.”

And with that, he was gone – the fire door was left hanging open in the cool September sky. Castiel was frozen in place for a moment; it was almost like an out-of-body experience. He could feel his mouth hanging open, feel his legs locked into place, but he couldn’t get them to move.

_He kissed me. He kissed me and he ran._

That seemed to break the spell. Castiel moved towards the fire door and peaked out, looking from left to right. In the parking lot of the Corner Club there were more than a few interested looking people that Cas had recognised as being at the bar earlier. Some had their phones out. They appeared to be looking for something – _no, someone_ – but from what Cas could tell, the someone they were looking for had already hot-footed it out of there. Dean was probably blocks away by now.

 _Who was he?_ Castiel wasn’t stupid. You didn’t get that kind of reaction out of people unless you were famous, but exactly how famous was he? _Reality TV famous? Syndicated Cult Television famous?_ He wracked his brain, but the name ‘Dean Winchester’ was drawing a complete blank. And if a face like that was on the front of TV Guide, _like fuck_ Castiel wouldn’t remember it. Jody seemed friendly with him – maybe he could ask her? 

His eyes narrowed as he recalled Dean’s parting words: _‘I got lawyers, and no one would believe you anyway.”_

_What an asshole._

\----

The rest of the evening seemed to drag. Word of mouth spread quickly, and soon the crowd at the Corner Club had swollen exponentially. Castiel did his best to serve the customers, and side-stepped any questions thrown his way. _Was it true? Was Dean here? Like, the Dean? Is he still here? Does he come here a lot?_ When he told the more insistent customers that he didn’t have an answer to their questions, it wasn’t actually a lie.

With an increased crowd, the bar became stifling. Every mouthful of air Cas took seemed to be barely breathable, and more than once he found himself plunging his hands into the ice box, just to cool down. Beside him, sweat was beginning to plaster Jody’s short hair to her forehead. It hadn’t escaped Cas’ notice that she was not meeting his eyes.

_He kissed me._

He was on auto-pilot. Pour drinks, take cash. If he stopped, even for a second, he thought he might cease to function completely. And it wasn’t until Jody reached over the bar and grabbed the pull-rope of the bell that he realised what time it was.

“ALRIGHT, EVERYONE! LAST ORDERS AT THE BAR!”

 _It can’t be. Last orders are at…_ Castiel looked at the digital clock blinking above the cash register; it said ’01.51am’.  His heart sank. How had he been tending bar for nearly six hours?

He’d missed the First Blood after party. That, in and of itself, wasn’t enough to make him feel remorseful. He’d long since given up getting any decent photography gigs from _Noise!_ But he knew Gabriel would be disappointed in him, and somehow that was worse. He did not look forward to explaining this one to his older brother.

People were slow to leave the bar. Castiel found he had to round up the last group of rowdy, college-aged patrons and herd them out of the door like sheep. Jody held open the door by leaning on it, hair stuck to her face. He had never seen her look so tired. She locked the door after them and leaned her forehead against it.

“Jody…?” he said.

“Don’t”. Her shoulders sagged. Turning to face him, she took a deep breath, “I know what you’re going to ask, and don’t.”  


“You can’t expect me not to ask questions. How did you know that guy?”

She laughed. There was little humour in it. “Cas, don’t get me wrong. I owe you for tonight. You absolutely busted your balls, and you stayed way past your shift. I couldn’t have done it without you. But Dean? It’s kind of a family thing. I can’t tell you about that, so don’t ask me.”

“And I’m…?” He almost said, _‘And I’m not family?’_ , but he stopped himself. The way Jody looked at him was sad; almost pitying. And he realised that no, of course he wasn’t family. Jody was kind to him, she looked out for him, but she had her own flesh-and-blood family and just because she’d taken Cas under her wing didn’t mean… it just…

He wasn’t family. Of course he wasn’t. He suddenly felt incredibly stupid.

He knew his hurt must have shown on his face because Jody looked like she was going to say something else, so he cut her off before she had a chance.

“Are you at least going to tell me who he is?”

“Are you serious? Cas, you work for a music magazine.”  

“So he’s a musician?”

“Jesus. No wonder he liked you.” She reached for the tip jar and emptied the contents – there was a lot of crumpled notes, and she smoothed them out, stacking them neatly before handing them all over to Castiel. “Here, take it all. There’s got to be a few hundred here. You earned it.”

Castiel looked at the money in her hands. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it felt very much like he was being bribed.

“You keep it.” He said, “I’m good, thanks.”

She sighed, “Cas…”

“I’ll see you next week.” He said. He headed towards the office in the back; to the locker, where he had stashed his bag and camera. As he did it, he tried not to look at the wall with this missing picture frames and the crumbling plaster; the wall where he has been thoroughly kissed and then abandoned, like it had meant nothing. He kicked the locker door shut.

Maybe it had meant nothing.

As he walked to the door, he vaguely remembered an old idiom his mother used to say; something about ‘never parting on angry words.’ So before he left, he made an effort to stick his head around the door to the bar and say, “Hey, give Donna a hug from me? I’ll see you next week, Jody.”

Her smile was small, with no real feeling behind it. “Okay. See you soon, Cas.”


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel was used to waking up alone. The sunlight that hit his face was aggressive, and he realised that in his exhaustion the night before he had forgotten to close the curtains. As he pulled a pillow over his face, it took a moment for him to remember why his stomach was churning with anxiety.

Jody. The Corner Club.

_Dean._

Gabriel had always extolled the virtues of sleep; his brother liked to say that no matter how bad life got, things always seemed to be a little bit more manageable if you slept on it for eight hours. But this, as with so many things Gabriel came out with, was wrong. Castiel had somehow woken up feeling even more tired than when he went to bed.

The questions that had plagued him the night before came back in full force; who was Dean Winchester? How did Jody know him? Hell, how was it that everyone at the Corner Club seemed to recognise him, except for Castiel?

He had tried googling him – it had seemed like the obvious solution at the time. The name ‘Dean Winchester’ brought up four different candidates – three of which were over the age of forty, and the other one was a high school student in Trinidad; none of them were the man Castiel had met the night before. His search also brought back about four hundred results for miscellaneous websites – including a city in England, the Winchester House tourist attraction and the Winchester Repeating Arms company.

If he hadn’t been searching so obsessively, he might have missed it. A news story, buried somewhere on the fourth page of his google search results. In the early hours of Saturday morning, Castiel had sat up in his bed, his tired eyes scanning the article on his laptop:

 

_“ Local fire claims life of mother, 34. _

_A woman has died after firefighters pulled her from her midtown Kansas City home that was engulfed in flames last week._

_Firefighters responded to the blaze at about 8.40pm on Wednesday 2 nd November. Mary Winchester, aged 34, was pulled from the blaze and rushed to hospital but was later pronounced dead. _

_She is survived by two children – Dean, aged four and his brother Samuel, six months, remain in hospital. The Kansas Police Department has made a public appeal for the boys’ father to come forward to take custody of the children”._

 

It was an article from a newspaper archive, dated November 9th 1983\. It made Castiel feel incredibly sad, but it had nothing to do with the man he’d kissed so he’d forced himself to shut down the laptop. The sadness had stayed with him until he had eventually dropped off.

And now, unsure of the time, Castiel had to pull himself out of bed to close the curtains and block out the bright morning sun. He tried to give himself a pep talk while he did it – after all, yesterday had been a good day, hadn’t it? He’d spent his afternoon taking pictures, some of which were actually pretty good. And he had a good night too, hadn’t he? No, he’d had a _great_ night. He’d had a _great kiss_. People can go their entire lives without experiencing that kind of lip-crushing desperation. _Enjoy it for what it was,_ he told himself, _a great kiss from an anonymous man._

So he did. As he sat at the end of his bed, he found himself grinning.

He took a long shower and let the hot water dispel some of fog that clouded his mind. And if he happened to enjoy a little of his ‘shower-time’ thinking about a certain light-eyed individual, well, what was the harm? As he stepped into his bedroom to get dressed, he definitely felt more relaxed. He was just in the process of pulling on a pair of jeans when his cell phone started to ring. He had to dig it out of the pocket of his winter coat that he had hanging by the door.

He wedged the phone between his ear and his shoulder while he dug around his sock drawer.

“Hello?”

“Cassie!” said Gabriel. His brother sounded a lot more cheerful that morning, which was typical of his mercurial moods. “What are you up to this morning, baby brother?”

It was hard to be mad at his brother when he was in such a cheerful mood. Castiel shuck his head. It seemed like last night’s conversation had already been forgotten.

“It’s Saturday. I was thinking of going for a run, and then maybe doing some laundry.”

“Not anymore!” Gabriel said cheerily, “Chuck has called an emergency meeting.”

“On a _Saturday?”_ Castiel’s heart sank. _This can’t be good._ “Is this about the gig last night? Is he mad at me?”  
 

Gabriel laughed. “Relax, Cassie. I think you’re off the hook with this one. The meeting starts at 10am, so you better shake your tail feather if you don’t want to be late.”

Castiel checked the alarm clock on his bedside table – it was already 9.10am. “Crap. I’m getting a cab.”

“Well, hurry up. I’m already here.”

~

Castiel made it to the offices of _Noise!_ in record time. When he eventually got to Floor 7 he was out of breath, and as he caught his reflection in a passing window, he realised his hair was sticking up at odd angles. He tried to fix it whilst on the move and made it to the meeting room with seconds to spare.

Chuck was sitting at the head of the table, with Gabriel sitting to his left. Anna was handing out cups of coffee and ‘to-go’ bags from that bagel place around the corner.  It was just the three of them – four, now that Castiel had arrived – and by _Noise!_ standards, the meeting was practically empty. Where was Michael? Hell, where was… _everybody?_  

“Is this it?” he said, before he could stop himself.

Gabriel looked up with a grin. In contrast, Chuck looked like he wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. 

“It’s just us, Cassie! Take a seat.”  


Out of habit more than anything else, Castiel took the seat next to Gabriel, who picked up one of the bagel bags and tossed it in his direction. Rather more sedately, Anna passed him a coffee – black, just the way he liked it - and he grinned at her, earning himself a thin smile in return. The smell of the food already had his mouth watering, and once he was settled he opened the bag to reveal an everything bagel with sausage and egg. It was his favourite, and he recognised it for what it was; a peace-offering from Gabriel. It was the only kind of apology he ever got from his older brother, who – despite his diminutive size – valued food above all else. Bagels were the Gabriel equivalent of flowers, and even though Castiel knew how incredibly fucked-up that was, he still wasted no time in sinking his teeth into it. _God bless you Gabe, you weirdo._

“Okay,” Chuck began, “I assume you guys are aware of the situation last night.”

Anna nodded, and Gabriel pointed at Castiel.

“For the sake of our resident hermit over here, it might be wise to re-cap. Cas isn’t really _au fait_ with current events.”

Cas had a mouth full of food, otherwise he might have objected.  Chuck’s shoulders sagged – even by Chuck standards, he looked tired. For a moment, nobody said anything. Castiel looked from Chuck to Gabriel and then from Gabriel to Anna. When he swallowed his food, it sounded too loud in the quiet meeting room.

“What happened?” he said, “Where’s Michael?”

It was Anna that broke the silence. “We thought Michael had earned a day off. Last night… it was pretty rough for him.” She took a minute to sip her coffee, picking her next words carefully. “The thing is, First Blood cancelled their gig last night. It was chaos.”

Castiel was busying chewing. Anna and Chuck were staring at him, waiting for a reaction. The words obviously did not have the impact they wanted, so he made more of any effort to look shocked.

“So, Michael didn’t get that big scoop, huh? That sucks.” Castiel pushed the last of his bagel into his mouth, wiping his hands on a napkin. Part of him felt relieved – last night, he had thought that by helping out Jody he was missing his “big break”. But to be told the gig had been cancelled anyway, that he would have travelled all that way for nothing, he felt… what, vindicated? Then he thought about how excited Michael was and he felt guilty. Sure, Michael had a mean streak, but Castiel took no pleasure in watching other people suffer. He sank into his seat, holding his coffee with both hands.

“More than that.” Anna says, “It was chaos last night. They only announced they were cancelling the concert like, ten minutes before the support band were due to start. Fans were furious. Fights broke out. It’s been all over the news.”

Gabriel picked a piece of bacon out of his own bagel and chewed it.  “The band are in everyone’s shit-books right now. The fans are demanding refunds.” He seemed to think about something, before laughing to himself, “You should have heard Michael last night. I was there in the room when he rang Chuck. He was throwing a bitch-fit like you wouldn’t believe.”

“It’s not funny, Gabriel.” Chuck said.

“It’s a little bit funny.”

Castiel leant forward. “So, what’s the plan? I mean, obviously the ‘after-party’ article has been nixed. So where do we go from here?”

Chuck rolled his head, cricking his neck. “That’s why I called you guys here. Ordinarily I would give a job like this to Michael, but he was so stressed last night, I’d hate to put more on him. So Anna and Gabriel, I want to assign this one to you. Castiel, Gabriel recommended you as a photographer. Are you up for it?”

Castiel was about to agree, but Gabriel cut him off, “Yeah, but assign _what_ to us? What’s the story, morning glory?”

Chuck took a deep breath. “The band have called for a press release this afternoon, but I have a friend at the police department who informs me that the reason they called off the gig is that the lead guitarist, Dean Campbell, is _missing.”_

Just the mention of the name ‘Dean’ was enough to give Castiel a visceral reaction. He was certain he was blushing, and his dick most certainly took an interest. He had to remind himself that this isn’t _the_ Dean. Hell, ‘Dean’ probably wasn’t even the guy’s real name. He took a large mouthful of coffee, hoping to distract his body with caffeine.

_But then, Jody said Dean Winchester was a musician too, didn’t she?_

“Missing?” Anna’s eyes widen, “What? _When?_ For _how long?”_

Gabriel’s mouth is comically wide. A piece of tomato dropped out of his bagel and onto the table. “Do they suspect foul play?”

Chuck shrugged, “They don’t know. Apparently, the band landed in New York and he just took off. That was six days ago.”  


Gabriel looked from Anna to Castiel. He pointed his bagel emphatically at Cas. “$50 says he’s on a bender. I bet he’s gone full Robert Downey Jr. They’ll find him in a couple of days, passed out on a park bench in a pair of fishing waders.”

Castiel gave him a look. _“Gabriel.”_

Anna looked personally affronted, “Dean Campbell would _never_ do that.” And then, to Castiel, she said, “He’s very anti-drugs.”

 “Alright, that’s enough.” Chuck said, “I want you to chase up whatever leads you can. I want a full journalistic exposé on the whereabouts of Dean Campbell. It’s unlikely you’ll be able to find anything, but just do what you can. I need an article emailed to me by tomorrow night, ready to print on Monday.” He looked at Gabriel when he said this. As he talked, his eyes kept flicking back to Anna who was already taking notes. At no point did he look at Castiel.

Gabriel cleared his throat. “We’ll need expenses.”

Chuck closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose so hard that his knuckles turned white. “Fine. You get expenses for food, hotels and travel. Try not to bankrupt me.”

When Gabriel looked at Castiel, it was with a perfectly composed face; if you didn’t know Gabriel, you might not recognise the warning signs, but there was a definite glint in his eye that Castiel did not like the look of. Growing up together, that glint preceded some _spectacularly_ bad ideas. Already, he suspected he was going to have to rein in his brother’s expenditures.

If he left it to Gabriel, he knew they’d be hiring jet skis before the end of the day.

~

They started their investigation with the only real lead they had; they cornered Chuck’s police informant while he was parked on the side of highway, pretending to point a speed gun at passing motorists. From the informant, they got directed to a security guard at JFK Airport, who showed them some grainy surveillance footage of man with his back to the camera. The man moved quickly, his head down. In total, the footage lasted maybe twelve seconds, and it could have been anyone. It was not the journalistic breakthrough everyone was hoping it would be.

“Do you see that man?” Anna said, pointing to someone on the screen, “that’s Gordon Walker, the drummer.”

Gabriel whistled, “Sure is. And he looks pissed. Were they arguing?”

“Is that,” Anna squinted, leaning closer to the screen, “is that Benny? The guy with the hat?”

Gabriel nodded. Castiel didn’t know who Benny was or what he looked like, so he kept quiet. He rested both his hands on the camera around his neck, awaiting further instruction.

Gabriel turned to Cas, “You’re pretty good with this audio-visual shit. Do you think you could clean up the footage?” But before Cas got a chance to answer, the security guard leaned over them and turned off the screen.

“Sorry, gentlemen. And lady. This footage is property of JFK Airport. If the cops find out I let you see this, it could cost me my job.”

As it was, Castiel hadn’t been able to take any pictures - especially as all their informants insisted on keeping their identities secret.  He’s was beginning to wonder why Chuck asked him to come along, if all he was going to be doing was third-wheel it.   

At around 4.30pm, they decided to split up. The band had arranged their press conference for 5pm and Anna wanted to be there, in case the band decided to field questions. Gabriel, meanwhile, had already made plans to drive around all the major hotels in New York; he had heard somewhere that Dean Campbell liked to check into hotels using the names of obscure rock stars as aliases, and he thought that if Dean was anywhere in New York, this could be the only way to rumble him. It would require no small amount of bribery, dishonesty and possibly even flirting – all of which, Castiel was willing to admit, was much more Gabriel’s _forte_ than his.

And so, Castiel agreed to accompany Anna to the press conference and then go home. In the car, it was generally accepted that Cas would benefit from a few hours of learning about the band, including who Dean Campbell actually was and what he looked like. Gabriel – who was driving the car, whilst wearing sunglasses that looked far too big on his face – tried to cushion the blow by saying, ““Brother, I need you on research. You’re the _brains_ of this operation.”

They were about five blocks away from the Hilton when the call came through.

Gabriel pressed a button on his steering wheel, and the phone call was immediately re-routed to the Bluetooth speaker in his car. From the dashboard came the sound of Chuck’s voice, and the noise quality made it sound like he was speaking from the end of a very long tunnel.  

“Guys,” he said, “They’ve found him. They’ve found Dean Campbell.”

The noise that Gabriel made in response was barely human. He pulled the car over into the nearest available parking space, and as soon as he was in a safe position, he started to bang his head against the steering wheel, dislodging his sunglasses and sounding his car horn multiple times in the process. In the end, it was Anna who responded to Chuck, leaning across from the back seat and raising her voice a little to be heard.

“Is he okay?” She said.

“General impression is that he’s fine. Apparently, _he was_ on a bender _._ Gabriel was right.”

“I knew it.”  Gabriel said, forehead still pressed to the wheel. “I _knew_ he was on a bender. I hate Dean Campbell.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“No, I mean it. I hate him. Fuck Dean Campbell. I hope he sits on a lightbulb.” Gabriel turned to his brother and narrowed his eyes, “What are you smirking at, Cassie? You should be commiserating with me right now. Our big story just got canned. We’re both losers.”

Castiel placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “There, there.”

Chuck’s voice was quiet. Castiel could picture the vein on his forehead pulsing.

“Before you guys commit hara-kiri, there _is_ some good news. Campbell has agreed to give us an exclusive interview. Michael’s at the Hilton right now…”

Gabriel smiled with gritted teeth. “Great. That’s just great. So, you called us up to let us know that our assignment’s been canned and Michael’s taking our place? Thanks boss. We’ve wasted nearly an entire Saturday on this, I hope you realise that.”

“That’s not my fault Gabe, and you should know that that’s not the only reason I called.”

Chuck is quiet then. There was a weighty silence in the car, and Castiel realised that the silence was not just an absence of words but an absence of movement. The three of them seemed to hold their breath, waiting for Chuck’s next words.

“Castiel, your services are required.” he said.

Gabriel’s eyes widened, and he punched he brother in the arm. This time when he smiled, it was more genuine. “Way to go, baby bro!”

Castiel shook his head, but he couldn’t deny the static excitement that ran along his skin, his heart nearly beating out of his chest. “It’s only because Zeke broke his arm. You need me at the Hilton, Chuck?”  
  
“Yeah, there’s that. But see, there’s this other thing…” Chuck went quiet again. Then he said, “Dean Campbell requested you.”

Castiel didn’t dare look at Gabriel. He stared at the dashboard instead. He thought he must have heard wrong. He thought he must have _imagined it._

“He requested you.” Chuck seemed eerily, terrifyingly calm. “Castiel, is there something you’re not telling us? You don’t _know_ Dean Campbell, do you?”

Castiel looked to his brother. His eyes looked like they were about to pop out of their skull and in any other situation than this, it would have been hysterical. Anna’s brow furrowed. Castiel felt like he was going to be sick.

“I don’t… I mean, I don’t _think_ so.”

“You don’t think so?” Chuck repeated.

Gabriel looked like he wanted to reach both arms down the phoneline and grab Chuck by his lapels. “Chuck, you know that Cassie doesn’t know his _Dean Campbells_ from his _Dean Martins._ He wouldn’t recognise a member of First Blood if he stuck his tongue down his fucking throat. Would you, Cas?”    

Castiel obviously didn’t reply as quickly as Gabriel would have liked.

_“Would you, Cas?!”_ he said again.

Castiel tried to smile, but it felt weak. He shrugged his shoulders instead, trying to aim for nonchalance. What was there to say? _‘Gee, Gabe. I don’t think I do? But since you mention it, I did make out with someone called Dean last night, and I think he works in the music industry, and he seemed to be pretty famous.’_

But that couldn’t be _him._ It just… _fucking couldn’t be_. Why would Dean Campbell be hanging around a dive like the Corner Club on the night of a gig? And… and Dean Campbell was supposed to be straight, right? It didn’t make any sense.

Anna and Gabe were staring at him like they were expecting some kind of explanation, and he didn’t have one. Castiel opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, but he simply didn’t have the words. He tried shrugging again but apparently, that was not the response they were looking for.  

Anna said, “Castiel, if you have been lying to us this entire time, I’m going to kill you. I will bludgeon you to death with your own camera.”

“And I’ll watch.” Gabriel said.

“I haven’t been lying, I swear.”

“Do you know Dean Campbell or don’t you?” Gabriel said.

“I might.” 

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means _I don’t know.”_

That was it. That was tipping point for his brother. Castiel watched as Gabriel’s face went from pink, to red, to pure incandescence. “How THE HELL can you not know? He’s literally one of the most famous people on the planet. How many ‘Deans’ do you know?”

Castiel swallowed. “Just the one.”

“Enough.” Chuck’s calm voice cut through the argument like a hot knife. “Gabriel, let’s stick a pin in this for now – it doesn’t matter if Castiel “knows” Dean or not, the fact is his presence was requested. If Castiel doesn’t know Dean, then Dean certainly knows Castiel. We can work with that.”

Gabriel looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. Anna was furiously typing something on her phone.  As Castiel sat back in the passenger seat wishing he was somewhere – _anywhere_ – else, she leaned forward and shoved her cellphone into his face.  

“Castiel, look at this picture. Do you recognise this man?”

It was Dean. _His_ Dean.  In the picture, he was smiling – not the smug half-smile that had kept Castiel awake half the night, but something more practiced; a white, showbiz grin that undoubtedly had all his fans weak at the knees. In the crystal clear definition of Anna’s phone, Castiel could make out every freckle, every perfect dimple.

Castiel didn’t nod. He didn’t have to. Anna and Gabriel were glaring at him.

“Cas,” Chuck’s voice practically simpered now. Castiel had never heard him use that tone of voice before… hell, he didn’t think he’d ever heard Chuck call him ‘Cas’ before now, “do you think you’d be able to talk to Dean for us? He was very insistent that you be there. He might be more open with you.”

Castiel was still reeling. Suddenly, the interior of the car was stifling. He thought he might be sick. He leaned back against the head-rest and closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing; inhale one-two-three, exhale one-two-three, like they used to teach him in yoga.

“Cas?” Chuck prompted again.

“I guess?” He said.

“Great, that’s great.” Chuck said, “do you think you’d be able to wear a wire? If Dean talks to you, I mean. It could really help us.”

“No. No way.” Castiel reached for the door handle. “No wire, nothing like that. I don’t want this to turn into something seedy and I don’t want to ruin his life.”

Gabriel had been focusing very intently on not looking at Castiel, but now he turned to him, “Seriously? Five minutes ago you didn’t even know who he was. We had to show you a picture of _his face,_ and now you’re acting like his knight in shining armour? Are you fucking serious?”

Castiel opened the door and stepped into the cool, autumnal air. The air tasted fresh but slightly smoky; someone, somewhere, was burning leaves. For a moment, he was tempted by the idea of telling them everything – about his shift at the Corner Club, and the mysterious stranger who he helped rescue. Then he thought about the last thing Dean had said to him.

_‘I got lawyers, and no one would believe you anyway.”_ The words left him cold.

Castiel didn’t know Dean Winchester, (or Campbell, or whatever his real name was), well enough to actually hate him, but he certainly didn’t like him very much at that moment. But he couldn’t deny the nervous energy he felt at the opportunity of getting to meet him again. And besides that, Dean had actually asked for him. He seemed to remember mentioning that he was a photographer, but he didn’t think he had mentioned he had worked for ‘Noise!’. Had he been speaking to Jody?

Oh god, had he actually asked Jody about him? Why, when he made it so blatantly obvious that he didn’t care about him? Unless, did he think Cas was an easy lay? Someone he could fuck and then forget about? The thought didn’t make him feel as angry as he knew it should; it didn’t make him feel anything. Just a peculiar numbness.

He turned to the car. Inside, Anna and Gabriel were watching him. Anna still looked irritated, but a softer expression now settled on his brother’s face – that underlining base-expression of worry that he sometimes wore when he looked at Castiel, and in that moment Cas was reminded that Gabriel had always been more than an older brother to him. He had been a parent, of sorts. It had been Gabriel he had relied on when his mother had been become gradually more and more unhinged. It was Gabriel he was depending on now.  

He sighed, before sticking his head back into the car.

“I’ll show up, take some pictures and _maybe_ talk to Dean, _if_ he talks to me first. That’s the job you’re paying me to do, Chuck. If you want to try any of this entrapment shit, then I’m sorry. I’m out. Send another photographer.”

Castiel couldn’t quite make out what Chuck’s response was, so he had to lean further into the car.

“Sorry, say that again?”

Anna rolled her eyes, “He said, ‘they can’t send anyone else’.”

Chuck clarified, “You were a caveat, Castiel. Dean said he was only going to do the interview if you were the photographer. If there’s no ‘you’, there’s no interview.”

Castiel leaned his head against the car. _What the hell did that mean?_

A strange calmness settled over him; and he felt like he was standing in the eye of a hurricane, watching the whole world shatter around him yet feeling strangely at peace. And he thought, in a detached sort of way, that if he was going to do this, he might as well go for broke. Go _all in._ Because he realised at that moment that everything he had was on the line; his job at ‘Noise!’, his relationship with his brother – hell, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to keep working with Jody anymore after the fallout of the previous night. He didn’t have much of anything in his life but what he did have, Dean seemed hell-bent on destroying, so fuck it. 

He’d gamble it all to get some goddamn answers.

“We’re not far from the Hilton – maybe five minutes? But I won’t work with Michael – I want Gabriel to write it. Otherwise I’m not going.”

There was silence. Eventually, Chuck said, “Excuse me?”

“You heard. I want Gabriel with me to write the article. And Anna too. Michael gets all the big stories, it’s time you gave someone else a shot. And I want expenses.” Castiel struggled for minute, trying to think of other demands he could make, “And I want more photography work. You give all the good gigs to Zeke and he sucks. He gives everything a blue filter, it looks stupid.”

“Oh yeah? Anything else, Miss Garbo?” 

“No. That’s it.” He said. And then, as an afterthought, he added, “Thank you.”

“You realise, if you want any of your demands to be met, I’m going to want results? I want a groundbreaking story, Castiel. If all I get from this guy is ‘blahblahblah rehab’, you’re not getting anything.”

“I get that.”

“Deliver the goods. I’ll call Michael now, and smooth things over. I hope this is worth it, buddy. I wouldn’t want to be in Michael’s bad books, not for anyone. Call me when the interview is done. I want it emailed over to me _tonight._ ”

“Tonight then.”

 Anna was biting her lip. Next to him, Castiel watched as Gabriel disconnected the call and turned towards him with a wide grin.

“Who are you and what have you done with my baby brother?”

“Hey, I want answers just as much as you, okay? When I told you I didn’t know Dean Campbell, that wasn’t bullshit. I want to know how he found out my name and where I worked. I want to know why he requested me, when he…” he faltered then. He very nearly said _, ‘when he so clearly doesn’t give a shit about me’_ , but then he realised that might make him sound like he cared what Dean thought, which he most definitely didn’t.

He climbed into the car and shut the door.

“Let’s do this.” And when Gabriel didn’t immediately start the car, he turned to him. “Sometime today would be nice.”

“Jesus,” Gabriel turned the key, and Cas felt the engine purr to life, “hanging out with rock stars has really given you an attitude problem. You’re turning into Axl Rose.” He adjusted the sunglasses on his face and pulled out to join the slow-moving traffic.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Gabriel said, “I love it.” 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Making it to the hotel was easy, but finding somewhere to park was not.

It would seem that none of them had taken into account the fact that a press announcement meant the hotel would be crawling with other journalists, and by the time they had found a place to park the car, walked into the reception area, and spent several minutes standing by a fountain and looking for the correct place to go, Castiel’s numbness had worn off and he was dangerously close to hyperventilating.

 “Suck it up,” was Anna’s helpful advice. Gabriel put a supportive hand on his shoulder, but was only half paying attention – he was busy looking around, searching the hotel lobby for some kind of sign.

“Look!” he said, “I think those guys are from NME.”

Castiel and Anna turned their heads to where Gabriel was pointing and sure enough, Cas thought he recognised one of the men; a short, stocky journalist from a rival magazine. He was a man who had gotten both him and Gabe hellishly drunk at an awards ceremony the year before; Castiel remembered that night only vaguely, but he definitely recognised the man who had been buying them shots, and he watched as he approached a young woman with a clipboard. Without even looking up, the woman checked her sheet and waved them through.

 “She must be the PR rep.” Anna said, “She’ll know where we should go.”

Castiel was only half-aware of crossing the lobby. He shouldered his bag of camera equipment and tried to smooth down his hair with his palms. Why the hell was he so nervous? He knew it wasn’t Dean’s fame that intimidated him –  Cas had met one or two famous musicians in his time, and they never really affected him. So, what made Dean Campbell so special? It had occurred to Cas that he might actually have a bit of a crush on him, but he squashed that thought with an alacrity that surprised even himself.  A crush on one of the most famous men in the music industry, now _that_ would be a bad idea. Never mind the fact that the guy was kind of an asshole.

The woman with the clipboard didn’t look up – instead, she continued to stare at her clipboard… no, not a clipboard, Cas realised, it was an ipad. Her red hair framing her face, she leaned over the screen and appeared to be reading something off the screen. Castiel noted, with some amusement, that underneath her blazer she was wearing a t-shirt that said “HOUSE ELF LIBERATION FRONT”.  The only sign she had even acknowledged their presence was a clipped “Yes?”

 “We’re here for the exclusive interview,” Gabriel said, “We’re from _Noise!_ magazine. Journalists Gabriel Novak and Anna Milton, and our photographer _Castiel Novak.”_

Cas did not miss the way his brother put emphasis on his name. If they had been back in the car or the boardroom, he would have been able to kick him – but standing there in the hotel lobby, he had no choice but to grit his teeth and watch as the PR  rep looked up from her screen for the first time. Her eyes fixed on him almost immediately.

 “You’re Castiel.” she said. It wasn’t a question. “I thought you’d be shorter.”

 Castiel had been about to smile at her but it froze on his face. How was he supposed to respond to that?

She reached into her pocket and produced three lanyards, which she insisted on placing over their heads herself. It felt like being knighted, in a way. Castiel examined the lanyard, mouthed the words “V.I.P” with a sense of surrealism, and when he looked up again the woman was still watching him, her smile wide and genuine.

“I’m Charlie,” she said, “I’m the bands’ PR guru, tech support and all-round girl friday.  I’m also their girl monday-through-thursday.” She looked at them expectantly but when they didn’t laugh, she sighed, “Nobody gets my cultural references. Anyway, here’s the thing: I have to stay down here until the end of the press conference, but if you guys go hang around upstairs, both Dean and the band will be with you shortly.”

Anna cleared her throat. “You don’t think we should stick around here for the bit? For the press conference?”

“I wouldn’t bother.” Charlie regarded Anna with thinly-concealed interest. She looked her up and down. The smile she gave Anna was very different to the smile she gave Castiel. It was almost flirtatious. “If I know Dean as well as I think I do, that press conference is going to last exactly thirty-seconds. For a rockstar, he sure hates cameras.” She looked at Castiel again. “Well, _most cameras_. He seemed to like you just fine.”

Castiel felt uncomfortable under her scrutiny. The way she was looking at him made him feel like he was some new, undiscovered species. Gabriel made a noise that sounded suspiciously like he was suppressing a laugh.

“Anyway,” Charlie continued, “They’re just going to announce that Dean had a “medical emergency” and that he’ll be going into rehab. Very blah. You’ll be better off hanging out upstairs. They have free drinks and an X-Box.”

 “That’s bull.” Castiel blurted out. Charlie looked at him, a little taken aback, “I, uh… does Dean really need rehab? He didn’t seem to need rehab when, uh…”

 “You guys decided to hang out and become _besties?”_ Charlie said.

 Castiel was very aware of Gabriel and Anna watching him, “Well, I wouldn’t say we became _besties_ …”

 “Relax, I’m just screwing with you, Marcello Rubini.” She said, and when Castiel looked at her blankly, she added, “’Marcello Rubini’ was the name of the journalist in La Dolce Vita? Urgh, _no one gets my cultural references!”_

“Oh.” Castiel was finding it hard not to smile back at her. “I don’t think I saw that one. Did it have Ryan Gosling in it?”

 “Stop it.” She swatted him on the arm with her ipad, “Take the elevator up to the 99th Floor. The interview is going to take place in the penthouse suite. I’ll radio security now and let them know you’re coming up, they’ll be able to show you where to go. Help yourselves to food and drinks.”

 That was a dangerous thing to say in front of Gabriel.

Security did, in fact, meet them on the 99th floor. They were escorted to the penthouse suite, which was at the end of a very long corridor, and it was all Castiel could do to put one foot in front of the other. What was he doing here? There had to be some kind of mistake. Even as the security guard opened the door and ushered them inside, Castiel still hung back, waiting for them to close the door on him and laugh. _‘Haha, just kidding!’_

 Stepping inside the penthouse was like stepping into another world.

 It was bigger than Castiel’s apartment several times over – hell, bigger than some of the houses he and Gabe had grown up in. There was a grand piano standing in one corner, shiny and black. When Castiel placed a hand on it, he left behind a smudge of a fingerprint against its immaculate surface and immediately felt embarrassed. Anna’s first inclination was to go and check out the view from the balcony, and of course Gabriel’s first inclination was to head towards the canapes that had been left on the bar. Castiel let that sink in - there was _a bar in the room_. An actual bar, not just a mini fridge filled with Jameson miniatures.

 

Castiel walked the length of the room. On impulse, he took a picture of the piano. He walked out to the balcony and felt his stomach drop from being ninety-nine floors up, and when he walked back inside he knew he must’ve looked pale because Gabriel pressed a glass of scotch into his hands.

He took a photograph of the wide, white couches that stretched in front of the fireplace, flanking a coffee table and a piece of modern art that looked truly atrocious but not out of place in their opulent surroundings.

“Dude,” his brother said, “check out the chandelier.” 

Because _of course_ there was a chandelier. Castiel looked up towards the ceiling and swallowed hard. Somewhere, in the background, he was dimly aware of Anna talking about a guitar – Dean’s guitar – that was just casually propped against the wall in the hallway like it was nothing.

“Baby bro,” Gabriel said, “what did you do? Did you blow Dean Campbell? Because if you did, you should 100% do it again so I can keep eating these bacon thingies.”

“And let me watch.” Anna chipped in.

Castiel surveyed the room through the eye of his camera lens, “Gabe, they’re called ‘vol au vents’ and I’m not going to fellate a guy just so you can keep eating them.”

Through the lens, he saw his brother shake his head. “You can be so selfish.”

“Selfish.” Anna agreed. 

Time seemed to stand still. Cas had no idea how long he had been waiting; ten minutes? Thirty? Sixty? He took a photograph of Dean’s guitar and ran his fingers along the frets, touching the strings where he knew Dean must have touched them. He couldn’t help the flush of excitement – it felt so illicit. If Gabriel hadn’t been watching him, he might even have licked them. He was just that weird.

In contrast, Anna couldn’t seem to sit still – she tore through the apartment, examining every room, reporting back to them. When she walked back into the reception room for maybe the eighth time, talking excitedly about a jacuzzi in the bathroom, the sound of a key-card swiping on the other side of the door stopped the reporters in their tracks. Castiel stepped away from the guitar.

It was Charlie. “It won’t be long now. Do you guys want the tour?”

 Gabriel pointed at Anna, “Somebody already gave herself a tour.”

Anna flushed. “I only checked out the bathroom,” she said, which was such an outright lie that Castiel did a double-take.

Charlie wasn’t fazed. “The jacuzzi, amiright? But no, it’s cool. Feel free to look around. Just stay out of the bedroom. Dean’s personal stuff is in there.”

_Dean’s personal stuff._ Castiel hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath until he exhaled, his heart beating arrhythmically, his skin feeling like he was burning up. He kept picturing the Dean from the night before – all swollen lips and flushed cheeks - and he didn’t know if he could see him again. Not like this, not in a room full of people. But of course, it was too late.

The door opened again and the commotion that followed was a sharp contrast to the quiet excitement that took place before. The first person through the door was a broad man with a southern accent, who already seemed to be in the middle of a ribald joke to the people behind him. Anna paled when she saw him, and Cas immediately knew he was part of the band. Behind him was a gruff looking older man – with a beard that looked like it had once been red, before it had greyed. He swatted the first man out of the way with a fierce “idjit”.

Then there came Dean. It happened very slowly and very quickly at the same time; he walked in the room and wrapped his arm around Charlie’s shoulder. He seemed to notice Gabriel first, and Castiel watched as his brow furrowed. For a moment he looked annoyed – like Gabriel was not supposed to be there. Next to Gabriel, a very pale Anna was setting up her tape recorder and when Dean’s eyes moved to her, his scowl deepened. Castiel felt a kind of blind panic then; wait, was this a mistake? Did Dean not want them there after all? What the hell was going on?

Castiel did the only thing he knew how to do; he started taking pictures. He held the camera up to his face, effectively hiding behind the lens. It was a little cowardly, sure, but it was the only way he knew how to get through the moment. Point and click, point and click. Now this – _this_ – was something Castiel knew how to do, and an eerie calmness descended upon him. He felt his shoulders relax.

The next time he looked at Dean, the man seemed to have finally noticed him. He was staring right at him  – the same way he had been staring in the bar the night before – with a kind of unrelenting amusement. Like Castiel was the funniest goddamn thing he had seen all day. It was vaguely insulting and should not have been a turn-on, but god help him, Cas’s dick didn’t seem to have got that memo. He had obviously turned into some kind of masochist, or a pervert, or _something_ , if this was the sort of thing that was getting him off nowadays. Well, he supposed, that’s what happened when you starved yourself of sex for a few years. He had to remind himself to breathe.

 “Well,” Dean said, eventually, “Look who finally decided to show up.” Without the noise of a bar to mask it, his voice had pleasant timbre to it. His voice was deep, almost rumbling. Cas felt it all the way to the pit of his stomach.

Castiel continued to snap away, trying to ignore the effect the words were having on him.

 “I’m here to work, Mr Campbell.” He’d meant to sound professional, but he was sure his voice was shaking. Why was his voice shaking?

 “Ah, he’s so serious. Hey, Charlie – didn’t I tell you he was serious?”

 Standing next to Dean, Charlie looked a lot shorter. She smiled up at him, her arms behind her back, “’Serious’? Now, that’s not the _adjective_ I remember you using...”

 “Alright, that’s it.” Dean pushed her towards the door. “Get out, take Benny and Bobby with you. I have an interview to do.”

 The southern man was tall enough to easily peer over the top of Charlie’s head. “What’s this? Is this guy our Yoko?” Cas took a picture of him too as he used Charlie as a chin-rest. Cas wasn’t entirely sure what a ‘Yoko’ was, but judging by Charlie’s reaction, it was not a good thing. She turned around and smacked him on the arm.

“He is not a ‘Yoko’. He’s Dean’s friend, and he’s here to work.”

Somewhere over by the coffee table, Castiel could hear the gruff older man say, “Fine, we know when we’re not wanted. Still takin’ all your beer though.”

Dean looked dismayed, “Oh c’mon, Bobby…”

“Nope. This is what you get for actin’ like a jackass last night. Yer grounded, yer idjit.”

As Charlie was shepherding the two men over to towards the door, she looked over at Dean and threw him a look that was completely lost on Cas. He pulled the camera from his face and watched her close the door.

He turned to Dean, who was standing a lot closer to him than he’d originally thought. Dean smiled and tapped the camera, “I was starting to think you’d got that thing stuck to your face.”

Behind them, he heard the sound of Gabriel frantically clearing his voice. When Castiel turned to his brother, it was to see him grinning from ear-to-ear. Anna, in contrast, still looked a little shell-shocked.

“So, uh…” Gabriel said, “how would you like to do this? The interview, I mean.”

Dean shrugged and turned to Cas. And then everybody was looking at him; which was annoying, because he was a photographer, and he wasn’t supposed to be organising this thing. What the hell was wrong with these people?  

This day was getting weirder and weirder.

“Well,” Castiel said, “obviously you need to interview Dean. I was thinking of getting some candid shots of you guys talking. And maybe some one-on-one profile shots on the balcony. In fact, maybe we should do the balcony photos first. You know, because the sun’s setting. The lighting’s not going to last much longer.””

Dean shrugged again and rubbed the back of his neck. He looked… what, nervous? Shy? Maybe something in between. It was completely at odds with the Dean he was used to seeing, and Cas had to remind himself that he really didn’t know this man that well. This really was only the second time he’d met him.

Gabriel was fiddling with Anna’s tape recorder, and she kept swatting his hands away. Even his brother seemed curiously subdued, which was unusual. It was very rare that Gabriel got starstruck in front of a musician. “Okay,” Gabe said, “You should go do the pictures first. Also, I uh…” Gabriel looked around, and bit his lip. He looked like he wanted to say something. Castiel watched him through the lens of his camera, and zoomed in on his worried face.

“What is it, Gabe?”  
  
Gabriel was trying to give him a meaningful look. Castiel had never had much patience for subterfuge. Castiel took a picture of his exasperated face, and with the camera’s click and whirr he watched as his brother’s meaningful look turned angry. Castiel smiled and took and took another one.

“You’re not getting paid to take pictures of  _me_ , you jackass.”

“Then just spit it out.” Click, whirr. “What are trying to tell me, Gabe?” Click, whirr. “The sooner you tell me, the sooner I can get on with Dean’s portraits.”

It was Dean’s laugh that stopped him. It was rich and warm.

“I get it now.” He said, “’Gabe’ – he’s that brother, you mentioned? The ‘other angel’?”  
  
Castiel turned to Dean and zoomed in – for the first time he noticed the slight crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, worn into his face from a lifetime of smiling and sun exposure. If anything, they added to his attractiveness, although Cas wasn’t sure why. Sometimes when you smiled from the eyes like that, you couldn’t help but be beautiful. Castiel was certain his own crow’s feet did not look that attractive.  

Cas said, “Gabriel’s not an angel. He’s a journalist. That’s like the exact opposite.”

 

“Well, you two sure act like brothers. The way you passive-aggressively torture each other. This one time, me and Sa-…” he stopped then. He looked almost confused, like he wasn’t sure why he was saying the things he was saying. And then he looked sad, and Castiel lowered his camera.

He almost said, “You and who?”  


“Anyway,” Gabriel cleared his throat, “What I was trying to say, Ass-tiel, is that it might be kind of cold on the balcony. Only I was trying to tell you  _subtly,_  so that the eminent rockstar didn’t realise you hadn’t thought your plan through.”

Castiel shrugged, “It’s okay. He already knows I’m an idiot.”

Dean smiled again, but it was thinner this time; weaker. “I like idiots. And I have a jacket, so it’s all good.”

“Why don’t you take your pictures then? Before the sun goes down. Anna and I can hang out here for a couple of minutes. Check the audio equipment.” With that, Anna snatched the tape recorder out of his hands with a vehemence that belied her size.

Castiel didn’t know how he felt about that; it hadn’t occurred to him to try an engineer a situation where he was alone with Dean. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be alone with Dean. Was he going to kiss him again? Or worse,  _apologise?_   

Before he could object - before he could make up his mind about whether he wanted to object – Dean was already striding towards the balcony doors. He opened them, letting a blast of autumn air into the room, and turned his own collar up against the wind. He looked at Cas, expectantly. It was almost a challenge.

So he followed him. What other choice did he have?

The silence was killing him. He didn’t know what he was expecting – maybe he thought that once they were alone, Dean might try to explain himself. At the very least he thought he might try a little polite conversation. But as it was, the man seemed completely disinterested in conversing. Castiel would ask him to turn one way, then another. Tilt your head. No, higher. The most he ever got out of Dean was a mumbled “okay”.

It was driving him mad _. ‘Say something’,_  he wanted to scream.  _Why did you bring me here? To ignore me? To let me know how completely out of my league you are? Because I already got that message._

Or maybe, Castiel thought as he was clicking away, he was just over-thinking this. Over-analysing Dean’s motives the way he over-analysed everything, picking it apart trying to find a hidden meaning in his actions where there probably wasn’t any. Maybe his reasons were something as mundane as just wanting to tell his side of the story, and Castiel was the first person he thought of. Maybe it was a favour to Jody. All these ‘maybes’ were killing him.

“You, uh… you like your job?” Castiel asked. It was one last, drastic attempt to start a conversation. Anything to get Dean to engage with him. He was very aware of the pitch of his own voice – slightly higher than usual, and breathless.  _Just talk to me. Say something._

“I guess.” It was as abrupt as a smack in the face.

“You guess? Isn’t it every musician’s dream job?”

“I don’t know.” Dean leaned a little on the balcony and peered over – and Castiel’s stomach dropped a little just watching him. “It’s  _complicated.”_

The way he said ‘complicated’ reminded Castiel of his mother – _“Oh, it’s complicated, Cassie. You won’t understand until you’re older”_  – and it carried an undertone of condescension that Castiel didn’t care for.  _Oh, that’s right_ , he thought,  _I’m not a rock star so I wouldn’t understand. It must be so tough having women and men falling over you all day._

Castiel pulled the camera away from his face. He looked at Dean – looked at the long stretch of flushed, freckled skin that stretched from the neck of his t-shirt. And even through his frustration, he felt a pulse of pure  _want_  tear through him.

“Can you lean on the balcony a little? No, lean on one arm. Face me. That’s it.”

Dean looked at him with a sardonic smile, but did what he asked. 

“Like this?” he asked. Castiel felt very much like he was being humoured – like it was Castiel who had begged to come here to do the interview, and not the other way round. He took the picture while Dean was still half-smiling, and then – before he even removed his finger from the button, he had the strangest rush of feeling; this was all so surreal. He looked at the camera in his hands.  _What the fuck am I even doing here?_

It was then that the door to the balcony was pulled open and Gabriel popped his head out. Smiling, he said, “Are you guys nearly done? Anna and I are ready for you, Mr Campbell.”

“Sure.” Dean seemed to be treating Gabriel with the same casual indifference that he was treating Castiel. Gabe looked to Castiel, an unspoken question in his eyes. _Was he interrupting something?_   

Castiel shrugged. No, he was interrupting nothing.

Dean walked back into the penthouse and settled himself on the couch, opposite Anna. She practically beamed with excitement. The questions started out innocently enough; with Anna asking, breathlessly, _“How are you Mr Campbell? We’ve heard you had an exciting couple of days.”_

Dean became more animated then – yes, he’s been through a rough patch. He’d been drinking a lot. The band were going on hiatus until he could pull himself together. Constant touring had really been taking it out of him.

Castiel circled him with the camera. It helped if he thought of Dean as an object – just an item of furniture, or a piece of artwork. It helped calm himself enough that he no longer felt like he was going to embarrass himself.

“No,” Dean said, “I don’t have anyone special in my life.” Click.

The questions and answers were fired quickly – Cas found himself drowning them out. Tried to focus on framing the perfect picture. The questions went on and on – th

“Okay, one last question:” Gabriel grinned, “Zeppelin or The Who? Who’s better?”

Dean grinned. It was a real smile, and despite himself Castiel felt his heart leap.

“Easy. Led Zeppelin, all the way.” And then he was looking at Cas, right down his camera lens, “You know Led Zeppelin, Cas?”

“Sure. Stairway to Heaven. Everyone knows that.”

It anything, Dean’s smile widened. The full force of his attention hit Cas like a freight train and he felt himself grinning stupidly in response. That was, until he heard Anna laughing behind him.

“You don’t know Stairway to Heaven. Gimme a break.”

And okay, no. He didn’t technically _know_  Stairway to Heaven. Actually, he probably wouldn’t recognise it if he heard it. But he really could have done without Anna pointing that out. He felt his face flush. He pulled the camera from his face and gave her a wan smile.

“Go easy on me, Anna. I only found out who First Blood were a few hours ago.”

He’d meant it as self-depreciating, and Anna and Gabriel both laughed – but it was a fake laugh, one designed to protect him from embarrassment. See, Castiel seemed to say, you can’t hate me any more than I already hate myself, so give it up.

He didn’t look at Dean. He couldn’t bring himself to.

 As Anna and Gabriel began to pack away their equipment, Castiel was left with the peculiar feeling that he had failed some kind of test. Not only had he completely failed to get any interesting information out of Dean  - but worse, he had completely failed to even hold the man’s interest. He felt like Dean had been expecting more of him, and well, there wasn’t very much to Castiel. He must have seemed disappointingly normal to a man like Dean Campbell; he liked thai food and photography, Italian wines and occasionally larping. There was nothing there that could interest of an international rock star.

When he looked, Castiel found that Dean was watching him again; his face neutral.

Cas cleared his throat, “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

He didn’t know where that had come from. Castiel didn’t particularly need to use the bathroom, but the silence in the room had become stifling.

Dean’s smile was small and it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “Sure. Use the one in the master bedroom though, it’s bigger.”

And with that, Castiel disappeared. He allowed himself the brief respite, where he didn’t have to avoid Dean’s disinterested gaze or pretend he wasn’t a boring piece of shit. Walking through the master bedroom was something – the bed looked huge and the sheets were ruffled, and with a frisson of excitement Castiel realised that Dean had been sleeping there.  

This was Dean’s room.

He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. There was, as Anna had pointed out, a hot tub – and above the hot tub, imbedded into the wall was what looked like a fireplace, covered by a glass panel. The floor, the walls, all of it looked like it was pure marble.

_This bathroom must’ve cost more than my entire apartment_ , he thought.

It was as he was moving around the hot tube to perch on the toilet that he saw it – a pile of discarded clothes that he immediately recognised as being Dean’s from last night. The worn Jeans, the plaid shit – all lying in a pile next to the hot tub.

_I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t._

Outside the bathroom, he could hear the muffled sounds of Gabriel telling one of his stories, and he knew he was on borrowed time. Crouching, he pulled up the shirt he had been wearing and held it to his face. Breathed in the scent of deodorant, and sweat and something else – some kind of aftershave, the spicy scent of cloves and something else. It went straight to his groin.

He saw something else too. Buried amongst the jeans was a pair of boxer shorts. He lifted them out by the waistband, holding them up to eye-level. On the front of them was the print of a grizzly bear, roaring.

Bear boxer shorts. As miserable as he felt, Castiel had to smile.

 This; this was what he had been wearing the night before, when he had kissed him. Dean Campbell – the most famous man in rock music – wore grizzly bear underpants. It was _ridiculous._ But then, what did he think he wore? Black silk? Lingerie? The thought filled him with an ineffable energy, and Cas found himself wanting to laugh – hell, wanting to run through the corridors, shouting it from the top of his lungs - _“Dean Campbell wears bear underpants! He wears BEARS on his UNDERPANTS!”_

 And now that he had pictured it, he couldn’t stop picturing it. There was suddenly a very real danger of Dean or Gabriel kicking open the bathroom door and finding Castiel keeled over the hot tub, laughing his goddamn ass off, so Cas did the only thing he could – he tried to keep his laughing fit as quiet as possible. It crossed his mind that he should probably try to think of something unfunny to try and curb his hysterics – dead kittens, or tax returns, or something. But goddamn, it felt good to laugh. After a moment, his face began to hurt, and he balled his fists into the clothing, pressing them against his face, willing himself to calmness.

That was when he smelt it. He had to double-check, to be sure, but yes – there was an undeniable scent of some kind of aftershave coming from them. It was so faint, he had to press his nose into the cloth to find where it was coming from. It was the waistband, right at the front – the smell of cloves and sandelwood, and something else. Dean had dabbed aftershave above his waistband, a sure signifier that he had been intending to get laid that night.

And then it hit him again – that _this_ was what he had been wearing the night before when he had kissed him; back when he was still Dean Winchester, and he had pushed himself into Castiel and kissed him hard. And when Dean had been grinding his hips into his, this cloth was what he had been grinding into. He pressed the cloth against his face and inhaled again, not laughing suddenly – not feeling even close to laughing. It was unbelievably hot, and Castiel was struck with the urge to lick the inside of the cloth – lick where Dean’s cock had pressed, to see if there was any ghost of his arousal left to chase.

_Oh,_ he thought, _there is something very, very wrong with me._

Castiel was painfully hard, and he knew that hard men rarely made good decisions – but even so, he found himself stuffing the underwear into the back pocket of his camera bag. So what if Dean noticed they were missing? So what if security caught him? This had to have been the most fucked up day of his career so far, and he’d be damned if he didn’t have anything to show for it later.

He zipped up the pocket and pulled the bag strap over his shoulder, positioning the bag in such a way that it would hide his erection. He’d often carried his bag like this before, so Gabriel probably wouldn’t question it. Would Dean?

Placing his hand on the door handle of bathroom, he took a moment to breathe and steeled himself against whatever was on the other side.

_Oh well,_ he thought, _here goes nothing._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things; firstly, thank you for your kind words so far. I will get better at responding, I promise. I’m sort of new to this fanfic writing thing and I’m still finding my sea-legs. But there's only two things in this world that will make me write faster: Malteasers and kind words. 
> 
> Secondly, this chapter contains rude words, gay porn and other things that would upset my catholic mother. Reader discretion is advised. 
> 
> Anyway, onto the thing…

Escaping with the underwear was not as difficult as he thought it was going to be. Castiel’s “poker face” had never been great – he knew that, because Gabriel liked to remind him of it at every opportunity – and as he joined the gathering of people at the door to the penthouse, he felt for sure that one of them would realise he was up to something.

Anna was in the process of shaking Dean’s hand; in fact, she was still shaking his hand as Gabriel took Castiel’s camera bag off him and shouldered it. Cas deliberately did not look at the bag. Instead, he watched as Dean extracted his hand out of Anna’s grasp, and the way he flexed his fingers told him that she must have been gripping it for some time.

“Thank you again.” Anna said. “This has been _awesome!_ ”

Gabriel’s voice was a little less breathless, “Yeah. You’ve got my card, please feel free to contact ‘Noise!’ for all your… y’know, journalistic needs. Or whatever.”  


Dean’s smile was small, “Sure. I’ll do that.”

Anna was still gazing rapturously at Dean as Gabriel opened the door. “You’ve got my card too, right?”

Dean patted his shirt pocket. “Yup.”

Gabriel grabbed her arm, “He’s got _everyone’s_ cards, Anna. C’mon.” And almost in the same breath, he began to manoeuvre her out of the door. They were moving quickly, and Castiel realised they weren’t going to wait for him. Gabriel was already moving them down the corridor and Cas knew he was going to have to hurry if he wanted to catch up.

He watched the camera bag go; and with it, his stolen goods. He was getting away with it. He was nearly home free.

“Just one minute.” There was a warm hand on his bicep. Cas didn’t even realise he’d been heading towards the bag until he’d been stopped. He turned towards Dean, who was standing closer now than he’d been a moment ago. At this proximity, Castiel could feel the body heat radiating off him, and _fuck,_ the man was like a blast furnace. They were so close, in fact, that Cas had to pull back just to be able to meet his eyes.

“Now,” Dean said, “I know I have Anna’s card, and I know I have your brother’s card. But I don’t seem to have _your_ card.”

The words took a minute to register – Cas was still trying to reconcile the fact that he’d just stolen somebody’s underwear; no, not ‘somebody’ – a _rockstar._ He’d stolen the underwear from one of the most famous men on the planet. And now the man in question had placed himself squarely in his personal space, and all Cas’ energy was suddenly dedicated to positioning himself so that the hard-on he had been sporting since the bathroom was not embarrassingly obvious. His trousers felt uncomfortably tight, and Dean was so goddamn close, that cognitive function seemed to have abandoned him entirely.

“Huh?” Cas said.

“Business cards? You’ve heard of them, right? They have people’s phone numbers on them?” He was so close, their faces barely a foot apart. From this distance, the colour of his eyes reminded Cas of green amber – flecked, and flawed, and beautiful. Cas pictured himself as a mosquito, stuck forever in one place, but perfectly preserved for all time. It would certainly explain his inability to move. _Fuck, I need help._

He licked his lips, “I don’t have business cards. I’m just a photographer.”

“Photographers don’t have business cards?”

“This one doesn’t.” He seemed to be having problems keeping his voice steady. Dean – who _didn’t_ seem to have that problem – bit his bottom lip, leaving it swollen and pink. God, Cas hated him. He hated that the man looked so unbearably smug. He hated that he’d invited him here and then spent the better part of two hours ignoring him.

“You have a cell phone though. You could give me your number.”

Cas bristled, “I _might.”_

He laughed, _“You might_ have a cell phone, or you _might_ give me your number?”

“Pick one.”

His laugh was more of a huff – Cas felt his warm, minty breath on the side of his neck, ghosting his skin. It was all at once irritating, yet horribly erotic.

“Jesus, man, what is it about you?” Dean shuck his head, “You’re just so…”

Castiel almost held his breath. “So what?”

Dean grinned, “So _normal.”_

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Castiel clenched his jaw.

“Well, as compliments go… _that wasn’t one.”_ Dean laughed at that too, tightening his hold on Cas’ arm. While he laughed, Cas wondered if this is what it was going to be like if he gave Dean his number – sure Dean, seemed to be playful and flirty now, but an hour ago the man was struggling to look him in the eye. Did he want to further a connection with a man who blew hot and cold all the time? Or worse, would he find himself in the same position he was always in – staring at his cell phone, trying to pretend he wasn’t waiting for it to ring? _Why was he always attracted to unavailable men?_

He suddenly felt sad. And very alone.

When Dean had calmed himself a little, Castiel pulled out of his grip. He turned to Dean, who seemed a little confused by Cas’s sudden step back. His smile was gone.

Cas extended his hand, and said, “Mr Campbell. It was nice to meet you again. Thank you for this amazing opportunity.”

“Uh, you’re welcome. I guess?” Dean’s hand was warm in his – almost too warm – and his entire universe narrowed to that brief contact of skin on skin. Cas went to pull his hand back and felt resistance. Dean tightened his grip, seemed to prolong the contact. When he did manage to pull his hand away, their palms dragged against each other and oh god, it just felt _right._ But then, so many things in his life had ‘just felt right’ and they turned out to be wrong.   

And then he remembered Dean’s words: _‘I got lawyers, and no one would believe you anyway.”_

It was those words that gave him the impetus to walk out the door and towards the elevator. Dean didn’t try to stop him, and for that he supposed he should have been grateful.

~

Gabriel, to his credit, didn’t bug him. It was Anna who had made the pointed remarks about Cas’ disappearance – she had been timing him, apparently, and she told Castiel that he had delayed leaving the penthouse for a full _fifteen minutes._

Castiel didn’t know how to respond to that. He still felt kind of numb. He sort of hated himself for walking away from Dean, even though he knew it was the right thing to do. He stared out the window as they got stuck in traffic, and when Gabriel dropped him off outside his apartment building, his brother didn’t say anything – just place a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. It was such a _Gabriel_ thing to do, that Cas felt his eyes welling up when he got out the car; because sure, his love life might be sad sack of shit right now, but he had a brother that loved him, and he was pathetically grateful for that.

Castiel was not really a cryer, but that night he made an exception.

~

His home was a top-floor apartment in downtown Brooklyn - it wasn’t the best neighbourhood to live in, but it certainly wasn’t the shittiest. It was maybe the fourth shittiest, which made it about ten-times better than any of the neighbourhoods he and Gabe had grown up in.

He’d picked all the furniture himself. And, because Castiel was an unrelenting aesthete in all aspects of his life, everything had to be perfect. The coffee table, the bookcases, the bedside cabinets – he liked his furniture to be rustic and homely, which was why he very seldom bought anything from Ikea. The wooden floor was covered by rugs, and the couch – where he spent so much of his time, watching Netflix or photoshopping his work - was wide and comfortable. It was also a dark hunter green, with more cushions and throw blankets than any one man should probably own.

Gabriel mocked him relentlessly.

In fact, his brother had taken issue with almost every aspect of Castiel’s stylistic choices – from the sheer volume of Yankee candles to his art deco table lamps. However, it had not escaped Castiel’s attention that his brother seemed to spend a lot more time in his apartment then he did in his own. Probably because it was tidier, for one thing – and lord knew, it certainly _smelled_ better. But more importantly, Cas had made it a home. People who visited his apartment never seemed to leave in a hurry.

And it was in this home - in the low light of the same art deco lamp and with a thin blanket over his knee -  that Castiel curled up on the couch and began to peruse the photographs he had taken that day.

Some pictures were much better than others; the one of Dean leaning on the balcony, the orange hue of the sunset lighting across his face - that was the real money-shot. That was the one that Chuck was going to want, for sure. There were others – one of him throwing his head back and laughing at something Anna said, (which Castiel deleted immediately because it was not a flattering angle and certainly not because he felt a sharp pang of jealousy). There was one of him leaning forward, intently listening, and another of him laughing again.

The photos were pretty good and required very little in the way of adjustment. When he was satisfied, he attached a few of them in an email to Chuck and was ready to click ‘send’ when he noticed something in one of the photos. Dean seemed to be looking right at him, like he was looking _through_ the camera lens.

No, Cas realised, not _through_ the camera lens – but actually at him. Dean had been watching him work, and perversely, Castiel realised he didn’t want anybody else to see this picture. It was too intimate, too… _something._

He deleted it off the email to Chuck and instead, he sent it to print. He thought about framing it, except he knew that would require getting a certain level of shit from his brother, and he wasn’t sure he was mentally prepared for that just yet.

Besides, he had a much better souvenir hidden the pocket of his camera bag.

~

The article went to print on Monday. On Tuesday, the magazine was released and for the first time in his life, Castiel actually bought a copy of _Noise!_  

It was _his_ artwork on the cover; a picture of Dean, leaning on the balcony, the setting sun lighting his beautiful face. On impulse, Castiel bought a second copy - thought about buying a third.  

_My photo on the front cover. Mine._

He read the article as he was walking. In fact, he was so engrossed, he almost walked into the glass door of Starbucks and tried to apologise to his own reflection. The article was good; not seedy at all, like how Michael would have written it. Gabriel and Anna had managed to paint Dean in a very sympathetic light and there was a lot of emphasis placed on the remorse he felt for missing the gig. It was not the article Chuck had been hoping for, but Castiel loved it. As he joined the queue to pick up his coffee, he felt very proud of his older brother.

Tuesday passed without incident. Wednesday and Thursday too. On Friday, Chuck had called another staff meeting – but this time, Castiel had not been put on coffee duty. The meeting, as it turned out, was about the upcoming VooDoo Music Festival in New Orleans, which Balthazar was supposed to be covering. It wasn’t terribly interesting and if it wasn’t for the fact that Michael was glaring at him from across the table, Cas thought he might have zoned out.

_What is his problem?_

Chuck was slow to end the meeting. When it finally did finish, Castiel stood up and stretched the kinks out of his shoulder muscles. Hannah said something to him, and as he turned to respond Michael pushed past him, shoulder-checking him with such force that the coffee Cas was holding had very nearly got Jackson Pollocked all over his shirt. Instead, the luke-warm liquid spilled over his fingers and onto the meeting room table. Michael didn’t apologise. He didn’t even slow down on his way out the door.

_What is he, twelve? It’s like being back at High School._ As Cas picked up a napkin off the coffee table and began to dab at his hand, Chuck shuck his head.

“I tried to warn you,” he said, as the room was emptying, “Michael does not take kindly to being side-lined.”

“Great.”

“Oh, hey.” Chuck said, reaching for a pile of mail that was sitting next to his laptop. “I almost forgot. You got some mail. You order a new lens, or something?”

“No.” The package he passed to him was a brown, padded envelope. It was small – about A5-sized, with no return address or postal stamp to indicate where it had come from or who had sent it. Cas turned in over in his non-coffee stained hand. “Do you know where it came from?”  
  
“If I had to guess - the Post Office.” Chuck said as he walked out the room.

“Thanks Chuck. So helpful.”

Castiel took a quick detour to the men’s bathroom on the fourth floor to wash his hands, knowing it would be much cleaner than the one on seventh, and was almost always deserted. As he dried his hands, he looked at the package he had placed on the side of the sink. His full name, “MR CASTIEL J. NOVAK, C/O NOISE MAGAZINE, FLOOR 7, THE TURING BUILDING, LIVERPOOL AVENUE”, written in steady, black capitals across the front.

He opened it carefully. Had he ordered something and forgotten about it? No. Castiel had never sent parcels to his work address. Unless, had Gabe ordered something? His brother _was_ something of prankster. He tipped the contents of the envelope into his hand and found it was a cassette tape.

“Retro.” He huffed. He turned it over in his hand so he could read the front of it. What he saw there made his stomach drop.

In the same steady, black lettering: “DEAN’S TOP 13 ZEPP TRAXX”

_Could Gabe have…?_ No, this was not his style. Gabe was much more an “exploding glitter bomb” sort of guy. But then, did that mean…? _Did Dean actually send this?_ He opened the cover, looking for something – _anything_ – that might give him a clue, but all he could find was a track listing:

**Side A: “Kashmir”, “Black Dog”, “When the Levee Breaks”, “Ramble on”, “Since I’ve Been Loving You”, “Whole Lotta Love”, “Good Times, Bad Times”**

**Side B: “Why Can’t This Be Love?”**   _(“Okay man this one is actually Van Halen, but bear with me on this!!!”_ ), **“Heartbreaker”, “Stairway to Heaven”** _(“Y our song”), **“**_ **Immigrant Song”, “Dazed and Confused”, “Houses of the Holy”**

A mixed-tape. An actual, honest-to-god, mixed tape. The kind he used to make for his best friend back in the nineties, when he was just some punky pre-teen with a picture of Christian Slater hidden in his locker. He had to shake himself. No, he couldn’t get excited about this. This was a mistake. This couldn’t have been sent by Dean – he had seemed so implacable when they met. Bored, even. Someone was playing a trick on him, they had to be. And okay, Gabe wouldn’t be cruel enough to play a joke like this – but Michael might, surely? He’d already shown Castiel that he had a malicious streak as wide as an interstate highway, but _goddamn._

When he placed the tape back in the padded envelope, he was surprised to find his hands were shaking. He almost hid the envelope in his camera bag, but as he moved to place the package in a side pocket, something fluttered to the floor and it caught his eye. He picked it up, examining it carefully. It was a folded piece of paper, thin and whispery.

When he opened it, it was the same handwriting as the cassette tape: _“This is probably a really stupid idea but fuck it. Call me. 316-221-7816”_

It couldn’t be Dean. It just… couldn’t be. _Could it?_     

~

Castiel didn’t own a tape player. He’d tried searching some thrift stores on his way home from work, but nobody had any for sale, because _of course_ nobody had any for sale - _who listens to cassettes anymore?_  

So he did what any normal person would do, and downloaded a Led Zeppelin playlist on Spotify. As he lay back on his bed with his headphones on, and listened to the bluesy, guitar-driven sounds of Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, he decided he liked Led Zeppelin. But he didn’t know if he liked them because he actually liked them, or just because they reminded him of Dean.

_Dean._ With his eyes closed, he thought of green eyes. Thought of the way his eyes creased when he smiled – _those crow’s feet -_  because every diamond must have at least one small flaw, in order to emphasise its quality. It was the imperfection that ultimately made him perfect. And suddenly, it didn’t matter if Dean was the one who sent him the tape, because they’d shared a… a… _thing._ For a brief period of time, even if was only for a couple of hours, Dean had wanted Castiel – and it didn’t matter if he was some hotshot rockstar from wherever, because he was literally the most attractive man he had ever seen.

He was half-hard just thinking about it. It had been a while since he had last jacked off, he realised, and if he felt any guilt about relegating Dean from “genuine human being” to “spank-bank” material, then that guilt was easily quashed. He let his hand trail down his chest until his fingers stopped under the waistband of his jeans.  He felt it; that black hole of need that opens up in the pit of the stomach and swallows everything in its path. His whole body began to hum with it, and he suddenly felt too warm. He was about to unbutton his jeans when he had a sudden, traitorous thought

_The underwear._ _Dean’s underwear._

Cas wasn’t afraid to admit that he’d thought of those boxer shorts whilst he was in the shower, or late at night; the perfunctory ‘jacking off’ times when he just had to get it out of his system. But it had been a few days since he had last touched himself and now – with Robert Plant singing _‘Babe I’m Gonna Leave You’_ – it seemed imperative that he should be wearing them. That he should put his cock into the space where Dean’s cock had been, and more than that – that his erection should be straining against the fabric where Dean’s erection had been. Suddenly, he was embarrassingly hard; the thought of Dean’s dick – the thought of his own dick touching Dean’s. He needed it. He wanted it, _so so badly._

He’d hidden the boxer shorts in the back of his own underwear drawer – untouched and unwashed. They still carried that scent of Dean’s aftershave, that delicious, earthy smell that Cas just wanted to bury himself in. He redirected Spotify to play out of a Bluetooth speaker sitting on top of his dresser and pulled off his headphones, running a shaky hand through his hair. Then he began to strip – unbuttoning his shirt first, and then toeing off his socks and jeans. He did it quickly, nearly tripping himself up in the process.

God, how had he gotten so hard? Somehow, without even touching himself, he had managed to get from half-hard to fucking desperate in less than a couple of minutes. As he stepped into the underwear and pulled it up his legs, he realised he had a problem. Even if he wasn’t slightly larger than average, it would be difficult for any man to manoeuvre a fully erect cock into a pair of boxer shorts. In the end, he used the waistband to pin the erection flat against his body. He looked down at the head of the cock protruding from the waistband, could feel the cut of the elastic as it dug into the sensitive skin of his frenulum. It felt incredible.

He rubbed a thumb along the outline of his cock and watched as a small bead of pre-come dribbled down to where skin met elastic. He felt a slight remorse for soiling Dean’s boxer shorts – he knew in some distinct corner of his mind that this meant he had to actually wash them now – but couldn’t quite bring himself to care. It felt too good, so he stroked himself some more, and that small bead gave way to a bigger, more embarrassing drool of pre-come. He thumbed the slit and didn’t bother to stifle the groan that came out of him.

Falling back on the bed, Cas reached for the bedside cabinet. He pulled out a half-empty bottle of lubricant and poured a generous helping onto his right hand, rubbing his fingers in the mess until his hand was good and slick. He knew this wasn’t going to last long – didn’t want it to last long, really. It felt like forever since he had last had a real release, and as much as he would have liked to draw it out, he couldn’t. He pulled the boxers down slightly, just enough so that he had access to his cock, and formed a loose fist with his right hand. He positioned his fist so that it rested just above the head of his cock, and began to fuck into it.

“Ah, _fuckkk…”_ Yes, that was it. That was what he had been missing. He thought about Dean. He thought about the way he had kissed him, pushing him against the wall. Then he thought about what it would feel like to fuck his mouth – his lips so soft and pillowy, stretched around his cock. His amber green eyes watching him. He could picture it all – picture his eyes watering, and the tears streaming along those perfect crows-feet to drip down the side of his face.

He was jerking off properly now, building a rhythm. Another warm drool of pre-come touched his fingers, and he felt himself flush. It was weird, people weren’t supposed to be embarrassed when they masturbated by themselves, but his body had never been like this before – never been so _needy._ He was glad that Dean wasn’t there to see him, which lead him to the think about what Dean would think if he could see him now – lying with _his_ boxer shorts bunched around his thighs, frantically fucking his own hand. Would he be disgusted? No, Dean didn’t strike him as the kind of man that got disgusted easily. He’d probably smirk though – that fucking half-smile he did, like he thought he knew something that Cas didn’t. It was fucking patronising. Cas _hated_ it when Dean smirked.

And then, oh fuck, he was about to come. He had to stop. He had to stop right fucking now, because _god help him_ if he actually came whilst thinking about that stupid fucking smirk. But he couldn’t stop; couldn’t seem to make his own hand stop moving and then he was coming and coming and _coming._ With a long, drawn-out groan, his body convulsed, and it felt like it could go on forever – hot spurts of come pulsing out of him and landing on his chest in wet lashes.

When the fever passed, Cas retrieved his sticky hand from inside the boxers, and rolled over. It had been a while since he had experienced an orgasm quite that intense. Hell, it had been a while, period. It took a minute for him to catch his breath.

“I hate him.” He said, to no one in particular.

 


End file.
